


The One That's Just Soft KOBD Flashfic

by fascinationex



Series: the flash fic series [7]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Bottom Breakdown, Fluff and Smut, Light Bondage, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, extreme fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23716177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fascinationex/pseuds/fascinationex
Summary: Breakdown doesn’t remember if he’s felt like this before. The data is probably there, somewhere, in his memories. But he cannot access it. His processor is warm and slow and syrupy.
Relationships: Breakdown/Knock Out
Series: the flash fic series [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1665544
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82
Collections: Movies





	The One That's Just Soft KOBD Flashfic

**Author's Note:**

> My camp nano fic this April is a _very different_ kobd fic, but I can take a break, mash my face into the keyboard and write a little a smut, for a treat

Breakdown doesn’t remember if he’s felt like this before. 

The data is probably there, somewhere, in his memories. But he cannot access it. His processor is warm and slow and syrupy.

His motor relays are all out, disabled. Knock Out might be better at taking a mech apart than fixing one up, but he is very precise when he cares to be. With Breakdown, he is precise. He cares to be. That’s almost more exciting than the interfacing.

There’s a spike in his valve—a fake one, not charged and crackling like a real cybertronian’s. But he still feels it. It’s hard, made of something dense enough to feel heavy. It is just big enough to stretch the lining inside his valve and press on all its buried sensors. It feels nice. He is warm and the contact feels good. 

He can’t make a single voluntary movement. It is at once suffocating and wonderful: all that is left to him is to endure. He can’t induce more sensation than he’s allowed, and he certainly can’t get away from whatever Knock Out chooses to give him.

Knock Out still looks pristine. The low lighting is warm and yellow-orange, so his polished plating glows like red hot iron. He looks down at Breakdown all intent and speculative, like he’s picking a new brand of polish out from a lineup.

Breakdown likes being laid out for Knock Out like this. He could do anything. Breakdown would let him, even if he could move to stop him. Breakdown would let him do _anything._

Knock Out can be mean. Breakdown knows it. But he is careful with Breakdown. He chooses to be, a thing that makes Breakdown's insides molten and shaky every time he thinks about it.

Breakdown is heavy and warm and good, all the way through his insides and between his thighs. Every so often his callipers give a hard encouraging clench and meet resistance, rubbing all his nodes over that spike, and a flood of dizzying pleasure washes over him. He grunts every time, optics flickering.

Knock Out has a delicate touch. His claws are sharp enough to go right through metal. The hand tracing the seam that hides Breakdown’s hip joints—cracked open, in this position, with the joints themselves gleaming softly in the intriguing shadows below—is very gentle though. Too gentle. Breakdown would lean into it if he could. But he cannot.

The spike in his valve prevents tactile overloads. Every new surge of charge incited by Knock Out’s hands is rerouted. His valve is active, interfacing equipment primed, nodes throbbing. There’s lubricant sheening his thighs. He can feel it, cold under the air blasting from his own fans. 

Knock Out’s hand barely brushes the biolight on his hip before his claw hooks into the pelvic seam there, maddeningly close to where he can feel the lips of his valve stretched around the spike. His hips twitch, short and involuntary. The first sign of movement—even his own movement—makes his frame light up and his valve ripple, long and hard. The spike feels so heavy between his thighs. His callipers squeeze, desperate, craving. 

His engine gives a short and startled growl, heavy and powerful in his huge frame.

“Such a big mech,” says Knock Out, low and purring. He scrapes his claws gently, indulgently over Breakdown's pelvic plating. "And, mm, all mine. You're doing wonderfully."

There’s a gap in his armour just above the pelvic plates, just barely big enough for Knock Out to slip a finger or two inside and very gently stroke their sharp tips on the protoform beneath, right over his secondary tank. Breakdown twitches and shudders: the sensation is strong, and there’s still nothing he can do about it.

Knock Out’s hands are nowhere near the size of his own, sharp and angular and maddeningly deft. Their claws are fully capable of sliding between the seams of his plating, catching on sensors unexpectedly. 

Now, those claws extract themselves and scrape up. Up, over his chest plate, lingering cruelly on the sensitive seam beneath it that opens to his spark chamber. His claws strike little sparks.

Breakdown can’t arch into it, no matter how much he wants to. He grunts again. His plating opens and closes reflexively, a long, rattling shudder. 

Knock Out’s finger runs over his jaw. Across his mouth. Over the closed seam of his lips, which he cannot open even though he wants to. Knock Out opens his lips for him, parting them with a razor sharp claw tip.

The pad rubs his tongue, then strokes the oral fluids over his lips again. Breakdown can taste him: iron and energon and the heady smells of polish and, much fainter, hot bitumen. If he could, he’d draw Knock Out’s finger into his mouth and suck on it, hard. He cannot. He feels one of his fans creak, strained.

Knock Out’s hand disappears, only for him to feel his claws tracing the major energon lines on his throat. It wouldn’t take very much to cut it. His optics strobe erratically, but when they’re running again he can see the dull red burn of Knock Out’s, hot and intent in his face. They are fixed on Breakdown, like there's nothing else in the world that has his attention.

Excited, his callipers squeeze down. It almost feels like getting fragged, but there’s no charge but what he generates himself. Nothing to overload to. Just physical sensation, washing over him, dragging him under. That, and Knock Out staring at him, warm and hungry, touching all of him, rubbing his lethal claws on all his most sensitive places.

Any damage he does is superficial and very, very intentional.

Breakdown’s fans run ever harder.

**Author's Note:**

> *covers my face* let me have this


End file.
